


Born in Honor

by gogirl212



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Brotherhood, Friendship, Honor, Loyalty, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Origin Story, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 19:19:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18372437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gogirl212/pseuds/gogirl212
Summary: At the heart of Captain Treville’s new Musketeer regiment are the principles of loyalty, brotherhood and honor, but does everyone believe in them?  An entry to the April Fete des Mousquetairs challenge.





	Born in Honor

**Author's Note:**

> The fete challenge this month was to write a story with the theme “honor” using the following lines as the start of the fic “Musketeers are men of honor. But there was no honor, not in this.” And this pretty much wrote itself after that! If you can, please take a moment and let me know what you think!

Musketeers are men of honor. But there was no honor, not in this Aramis fumed. He struggled to get into his boots, his broken arm making it almost impossible to pull them up. As it was he was going to go out there in just his braies and shirt and he was damned if he was going to face half the regiment without his boots on.

“Alec!” he yelled as he flopped backwards onto the cot, groaning as his arm throbbed in reaction. It was a clean break and would heal well but the injury was not even a day old and the slightest bump or jostle caused waves of pain to radiate from his arm. The physician had all but immobilized it last night by wrapping it tightly to his chest after he had splinted it. Without the benefit of being able to remove the arm from a sling, Aramis effectively only had one hand and pulling up tall boots was out of the question.

“Alec!” Aramis bellowed again, his urgency rising with the tide of the angry voices swelling in the courtyard. He was running out of time. “I swear you will grow old in those stables if you are not in here in —!” Aramis’s angry threat was cut short as the lad skidded to a halt in front of him, breathless and wide-eyed.

“They’re going to kill, ‘em sir,” the boy panted. Obviously he had been watching the proceedings in the yard, hence his fear and his tardiness.

“They are musketeers, they will not kill anyone,” Aramis said gruffly, thrusting one of his boots into the boy’s hands, “Now help me,” Aramis leaned back, bracing himself with his good arm as he extended a foot to Alec. Nervous as he was the boy was efficient and the boots were on and laced in quick time. 

Alec helped Aramis up from the cot with a tug on his good arm that had the marksman clenching down his jaw to keep his pain to himself. It was one thing to moan and cry in private, but in front of the kitchen boy was unacceptable. Instinctually, Aramis cast his eyes around the room for his blades and pistols but of course they were not in the infirmary. Captain Treville would have had them sent up to his rooms when they brought him in here. He considered sending Alec for them but thought again. These were musketeers, the most honorable men in the king’s service, he would not need weapons against his own regiment.

“Good lad,” Aramis said once he felt confident he could speak without wincing, “Get back to work now. Serge won’t be happy when he gets back if the kitchen looks like La Rochelle after the siege.”

“But that man,” Alec said, “They are going to —“

“They are going to do nothing,” Aramis said sternly, “Go to the kitchen.” The boy bit his lower lip, still uncertain but Aramis raised a brow and it was enough to send him scurrying back into the depths of the garrison. Whatever was going to happen in that courtyard, the boy did not need to see it. With far more confidence than an unarmed man without his trousers should have, Aramis pushed open the infirmary door and strode into the yard.

It had grown quiet but the mood of the men crowded by the stables was thunderous. This was not an easing of tensions but an escalation. Aramis felt the gooseflesh rise at the back of his neck. He was an experienced enough soldier to know when he was walking into a battle. He easily stepped through the crowd of about a dozen men, the soldiers shifting silently out of his way. Aramis had been with the regiment since its beginning and although no one held official position as Lieutenant or second to the Captain, Aramis was often placed in that role by the men themselves. He knew he had their respect but as he took in the situation before him, he hoped he did not need their loyalty too.

“Marchand,” Aramis called out almost casually, “What are you about there?” He took a strong stance, despite the arm bound to his chest, his left hand unconsciously straying to where his pistol should be on his hip. 

“Dealing with a thief,” Marchand said smugly as he turned from his handiwork. Strung up to one of the stable posts, arms pulled above his head and shirt ripped down the back, was one of the new recruits. His head was turned, cheek pressed against the post, a dirty rag stuffed into his mouth. Aramis did not need to see the cat-o-nine-tails in Marchand’s hands to know he intended to whip this man.

“So I see. What did he steal?” Aramis asked.

Marchand cleared his throat and fidgeted, “My pistols,” he replied gruffly. Aramis couldn’t help himself - he laughed. 

“Did he steal them or did you leave them lying around again?” he chuckled. Some of men murmured and Aramis heard some soft laughter as well. Marchand’s disorganization was well known in the regiment.

“I caught him red-handed,” Marchand sniped, face growing red, “He already confessed to taking them.” Something in the way Marchand’s eyes shifted told Aramis that this was only part of the story. But the nods around him said there must have been enough truth to Marchand’s account that they believed the musketeer was a thief.

“Fine then. Lock him him up in one of the cells until the Captain returns,” Aramis shrugged, “He’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“The Captain left me in charge,” Marchand challenged, emboldened as the men around him nodded in agreement.

“Of duty rosters,” Aramis quipped, heartened by another round of chuckles from the men.

“Of the garrison! I’m acting captain while he is gone and I’ll run this regiment as I see fit,” Marchand stepped forward, a steely calm settling over his face even as his neck turned red in rage. There may be no Lieutenant in the regiment, but that did not mean that some men didn’t want the position. “Go back to bed, Aramis, before you faint again,” Marchand mocked. This time the ripple of laughter was at Aramis’s expense. 

It was true, he had rode in yesterday afternoon barely able to hold himself up in the saddle. He lost consciousness just as he finished reporting to the captain about the bandits who had ambushed him on the road outside of Paris. He all but fell from his horse, half of the regiment watching. He had bested over five men alone yesterday and only Marchand would think to shame him for his injuries in that.

“The Captain would never condone flogging,” Aramis said, not backing away from the angry musketeer, “You know that.”

“I know that according to military discipline, in which our Captain is sorely lax, corporal punishment is meted to mutinous soldiers,” Marchand said coldly.

“Mutinous!” Aramis was incredulous, “It was theft a moment ago. Regardless, this is not the Musketeer way.”

“The Musketeer way,” Marchand nearly spat, “It is some excuse of the Captain to let every gutter rat and whore’s son into the regiment.” Aramis caught the grumbling agreement from some of the men around them. The sons of nobles were having trouble mixing with the common infantry that had been promoted to musketeer ranks. Aramis’s upbringing was no secret and he knew there were those who resented that.

“This is a regiment formed on loyalty, brotherhood and honor,” Aramis was done with Marchand and it was high time he stood up to him, “If you can’t abide by those principles than perhaps there is a another unit that would better appreciate your talents.”

“You would love that, Aramis,” Marchand said lowly, stepping inches from the marksman, “Clear the way for you to take command.”

“I don’t need more rank than the respect of the men here,” Aramis answered, “Don’t be jealous that you can’t seem to earn that yourself.” Aramis immediately regretted the statement as Marchand’s eyes flashed in anger. He was supposed to be diffusing the situation, not inflaming it by pissing off Marchand. Sometimes Aramis was his own worst enemy.

“Look around you, clearly I have both authority and respect,” Marchand said, “Now back off, soldier,” he sneered, and gave Aramis a shove squarely in the chest. The blow was hard and unbalanced him, forcing Aramis to stagger backward. He was grateful for the men behind him who kept him from falling over but now Aramis found his own rage rising. As Marchand raised the whip to take the first strike, Aramis grabbed a pistol from the belt of one of the men and surged forward.

“Stand down!” Aramis shouted, pistol extended before him. “There will be no flogging without the Captain’s orders.” Marchand turned and shook his head at Aramis.

“You’ve got a broken arm, Aramis,” he said with a sad laugh, “What exactly are you going to do with that pistol? Go back to bed. You are delirious.”

“From this range even left handed and blindfolded I could take your hand off your arm,” Aramis said with a cold smile, “Do you really want to test me?”

Marchand met Aramis with a defiant gaze, almost daring the marksman to shoot. Hotheaded as he may be, Aramis was not a fool. He waited through the tense silence until finally Marchand sighed and shook his head, raising his arms to his side in a gesture of acquiescence, the whip lying limply across his open palm. Aramis let out a breath he did not realize he had been holding. Onerous as Marchand was, he was still a musketeer and Aramis did not want to ever pit brother against brother like this. The Captain would return and sort this out, both the accusation of theft and the actions of Marchand. Aramis lowered the pistol.

As it turned out, Aramis relaxed his guard too soon. He caught the upward flick of Marchand’s eyes a moment too late to raise his weapon again. The pistol was stripped from his hands from a man behind him as someone else cuffed him in the head and shoved him forward. Aramis landed hard on his knees in the dirt of the courtyard, the impact from the blow making his vision swim as his broken arm throbbed. Aramis took several deep breaths, trying to master the pain as a pair of boots moved into his line of vision. Before he fully regained his composure someone nested a hand in his hair and yanked his head up so he could see Marchand towering over him.

“You just drew a weapon on your commanding officer,” Marchand’s tone was almost sweet, “You’ll hang for that. String him up with the other one!” Marchand shouted. 

Aramis was pulled roughly to his feet with no care for the wounded arm. He couldn’t help but gasp in pain as he was half-dragged to one of the upright posts supporting the hayloft above the stable. The bandages binding his arm to his chest were cut and the arm dropped down causing him to wince. Still, he was not done fighting and he braced his feet as he slammed his head backward into the face of the man behind him. He heard a sick crack and a yelp of pain and assumed he had broken the man’s nose. Aramis spun to draw the stunned musketeer’s blade from his belt when someone grabbed his right arm by the wrist and pulled him backwards. The agony was overwhelming and Aramis dropped the blade and sank to his knees again. Another musketeer took up his other arm and ruthlessly pulled him to a standing position and spun him to face the post. He felt the ropes circling his wrist and tried desperately to fight them off but the pain in his arm was more than he could manage. He had no shame as he cried out when the rope was pulled over a peg in the post and his arms were forced above his head, high enough that his broken arm had to bear the weight of his own body. 

His vision dimmed with white hot pain but he was still aware enough to hear shouts of protest from the men behind him. One of the musketeers slipped a dagger through the back of Aramis shirt and as the fabric ripped he also heard the distinctive sound of steel being drawn from scabbards. Not all of the Musketeers were certain Marchand was doing the right thing. It seemed it was brother against brother after all. There was nothing Aramis could do except fight to stay conscious against the pain that was coursing down his arm. 

“I am in command here!” Marchand bellowed, “You swore allegiance to this regiment and it’s Captain. And I am acting in his name. Any of you who moves against me will get the same done to him as to Aramis.” The mummers stopped, the men deadlocked. Some of them were ready to follow Marchand and some wanted to support Aramis, but none were certain that going against Marchand’s authority was right and none seemed willing to brave a flogging of their own.

The first blow of the whip caught Aramis completely off guard. He let out a strangled cry and squeezed his eyes shut as he threw his head back in response. The fire on his back added to that from his arm and his mind narrowed to a bright channel of white pain. He forgot to breathe for a moment. 

The second blow had him twisting against the ropes despite the pain in his arm. Every instinct was screaming for him to move and he could not. He swung his head to the side, the rough wood of the post scraping against his cheek as the third blow had him gasping for air. Saliva and blood from biting his tongue dripped from his mouth. Panting, he opened his eyes to find dark brown eyes staring fiercely into his own.

The other musketeer, the man tied helplessly to the post beside him, was looking at him not in fear, or pity, but with defiance. With fire. With a gaze that said that every inch of his being wanted to destroy the men that were beating them. No, not them - beating him, as another blow landed across Aramis’s back. He howled, but the brown eyes held him steady, gave him an anchor to the pain that now wracked his entire body. He would pass out soon, Aramis thought, and they might keep beating him anyway. The punishment for insubordination was 30 lashes. He tried in his eyes to show fortitude to the man beside him, tried desperately to keep his eyes open so as not to lose the courage this man was offering him. Aramis was readying himself for another strike when a loud voice bellowed behind him.

“Enough!” the man yelled, voice ringing out with authority and command. There was some murmur from the gathered men and then the swish of a blade through the air, “I said enough!” The man repeated.

“This is not your concern,” Marchand said tightly, “Go crawl back into that bottle you live in.”

“You are done here,” the tone was deadly, “It is easy enough to overpower a wounded man. Are you ready to challenge me though?” The challenge was met with silence. Aramis couldn’t help but smile, weak as it was. Athos might be known to be a drunk, but no one in the regiment would dare challenge his prowess with a blade. Drunk or sober, he could take out half of them before he broke much of a sweat.

“You have no authority,” Marchand started but Athos cut him off.

“I will not stand by when I see injustice.” There were answering voices from the crowd, the swish of drawing blades and the shuffle of men taking up another position. Aramis could not see the ring of men behind him but he thought there were more voices for support. The tide of loyalty had turned in his favor, supported by Athos’s blades breaking their stalemate.

“Injustice?” Marchand sputtered, “These men are criminals! Their punishment is earned. Now step aside.”

There was a long silence and then a roar and Aramis could only assume that Marchand had rushed Athos. The shouts of men rose above the ring of steel on steel as a full out battle broke out. Aramis tried to turn his head to get a glimpse of what was happening behind him but twisting caused the pain to flare in his broken arm. He had no idea who fought who, if Athos had any real support, if his brother-in-arms were actually drawing the blood of their own. 

Athos stumbled backward and into Aramis’s line of vision. The musketeer was focused on whomever was in front of him and fury lined his typically stoic face. Aramis wondered if he was losing ground, but there was a feral smile on Athos’s lip. As he parried and pushed forward with his rapier, a slice with his left-handed blade bit through the ropes holding up the other musketeer. A calculated retreat then, not a giving of ground. Damn, that man was good. Aramis had no opportunity to consider further, someone slammed hard into his back and knocked him off his feet, his full weight taken up by his broken arm. The world went white.

Aramis must have lost consciousness a moment, the pain so overwhelming. His mind was thick in a fog of agony, and it took him a long moment to realize there were hands around him and he was leaning against someone. His head rolled back against the man’s shoulder and he panted through the pain.  


“Hang on,” the deep voice rumbled in his ear and then he was lifted slightly upwards, the strain on his arms easing even though the position over his head was still painful, “Slip your wrists off the peg.” Aramis tried to comply but his limbs didn’t want to respond and all he managed was to give a painful tug to his injured arm that caused him to cry out.

“A’right, wait,” Aramis felt the man shift his hold on him and then his feet were completely off the ground and a big hand was reaching up to slide the looped rope off the peg that hand been holding him. Aramis felt his entire body give way as his arms came down, but he didn’t fall. The grip around him was strong and did not falter. He felt his feet touch the ground again but his legs had a tremble and he doubted he could stand on his own. It was no matter, it seemed the big man knew better than to let him go yet. 

Instinct had him struggling to pull his injured arm in toward his body. A large and surprisingly gentle hand gripped him by the elbow and helped him to ease the limb across his chest. He felt wobbly as a newborn colt but he had his legs under him finally and he pushed himself from the arms holding him and reached toward the post that had so recently held him captive. Leaning heavily on it with his left arm Aramis staggered forward a few steps and was able to turn and deposit himself on a hay bale beside it. He curled protectively over his wounded arm and worked to breathe through the dissipating pain. It took a few minutes before Aramis regained his composure and noticed that the sounds of fighting had disappeared. He looked up to find Athos giving orders to two men who were dragging off an unconscious or dead Marchand. Other men were picking themselves up off the ground but other than scrapes and bruises, no one seemed gravely injured. Athos turned from the others and strode back to Aramis, sheathing his blades as he approached.

“He alright?” Athos asked.

“I’ll live,” Aramis answered even though the question hadn’t been directed to him but to the big man still standing by his side.

“What happened?” Athos seemed irked and Aramis couldn’t blame him. 

“They said I stole Marchand’s pistols,” the big musketeer’s words were quiet but something in his look suggested to Aramis that being accused of theft struck him to his core.

“The ones he left in the stable last night?” Athos raised an eye.

“Yeah, those,” the big man’s scrubbed a hand over his face, “I was takin’ ‘em up to the Captain’s office when he stopped me on the stairs.”

“I told you to leave them be,” Athos looked irritated.

“Well it didn’t seem right,” the big man replied.

“How did he get involved?” Athos said with a flick of his head toward the marksman. Aramis realized he was still not being addressed. He sighed and straightened up on the hay bale.

“He,’ Aramis said with emphasis, “Was not about to let a fellow-Musketeer get flogged.” Athos narrowed his gaze and ran his eyes over the marksman’s body as if seeing him for the first time.

“Aren’t you supposed to be fainting in the infirmary?” Athos asked. 

“Aren’t you supposed to passed out under a crate of wine?” Aramis answered dryly, but the jabs to each other had a playful tone. Apparently they shared something in their sense of humor.

“I came for muster. I know my duty,” Athos said nonchalantly.

“Well it took you long enough to show up,” the big musketeer chided. Aramis raised a brow and glanced between the two men. They seemed to have enough of a familiarity that Athos bore that jibe as well with what looked like a smile tugging at his lips.

“You should feel lucky I came at all after last night,” Athos quipped back. With that the big man broke into a laugh.

“That was hardly my fault,” he chuckled at some memory, “I wasn’t cheating. And you didn’t have to get involved - I had the situation in hand.”

“There were four of them,” Athos shrugged. The two men shared a look between them that Aramis could only read as pride.

“How are you two friends?” Aramis couldn’t piece it together, “Athos does not make friends.”

“We been goin’ to the tavern together,” the big man shrugged.

“No, not together,” Athos corrected, “You have decided to take up residence at the card table at the Wren. I did not invite you.”

“But we have walked there together,” the big man said.

“Only because our duty ended at the same time,” Athos corrected, “You could find another game.”

“And you could find another hole to get drunk in,” the big musketeer was not holding back, “but then I wouldn’t be there to carry you home.”

“You don’t carry me home,” Athos looked indignant.

“Help then,” the other man offered. 

“Help,” Athos agreed.

“Speaking of which, thank you,” Aramis said, looking up to Athos. They had served together for a few months now but while Athos was efficient as a partner in a battle he held himself distant from all of them. In fact Aramis doubted he had heard Athos speak this much to anyone in all the time he had been in the regiment.

“No need,” Athos said coolly, “I was only doing what was right.”

“Other men could have and didn’t,” Aramis said.

“Other men tried,” Athos seemed to want to reassure him, “They just were uncertain whether honor came before duty.”

“You were certain,” Aramis smiled.

“Honor above all else,” Athos said simply, “It’s why I became a musketeer.”

“You didn’t have to stand up for me,” the big musketeer chimed in turning toward Aramis, soft brown eyes filled with with gratitude but also confusion, “You don’t even know me. Why did you?”

“I know you are a Musketeer and that is enough,” Aramis said.

“They are Musketeers too,” the man said darkly. Aramis sighed, because yes, they were Musketeers but Marchand and his cronies were not the men that Aramis had hoped to serve with when he joined the new regiment just over a year ago.

“They are not the best of us,” Aramis said sadly, “Treville is trying to build something different than an elitist squadron filled with the spoiled second sons of France’s nobility. That is why I am here, and why he recruited you I suspect. We may not be of noble birth but I’d wager that Treville saw no lack of nobility in you or you would not be here.”

“That is what the Captain said,” the big man said thoughtfully.

“He is a wise man,” Aramis replied. 

“You’ve earned my loyalty today. Thank you,” the big man said, extending a hand to Aramis. Aramis looked at the offered hand but made no gesture to take it. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to figure out what to do. The musketeer cocked his head, a sadness clouding his eyes before Athos let out an exasperated sigh.

“His arm, Porthos,” Athos said, rolling his eyes as he crouched beside Aramis, “He can’t take your hand,” Athos began to tug at the scarf around his own neck.

“Oi, sorry,” Porthos answered sheepishly, running his hand over his beard, “Forgot about that.”

“Here,” Athos said and reached to gently slide his scarf under Aramis’s arm. Porthos leaned in to hold the limb in place while Athos shifted behind him to tie it off as a makeshift sling.

“My back,” Aramis winced, the abrasion of the scarf sending renewed trails of fire along the lines of the whip.

“Let me see,” Athos said quietly, an unexpected tenderness to his tone. A warm hand rested on his bare shoulder beneath the rags of his torn shirt and held him steady as Athos gently moved the fabric to get a better look. “It is not so bad,” Athos reassured him, “Luckily for you Marchand is just as incompetent with a whip as he is a blade,” Aramis felt the shirt gently laid back over the stripes on his back. “Only one stroke broke skin and it is not deep. You will not need sutures.”

Aramis nodded his thanks and made to push himself up off of the hay bale. Two sets of hands were there to steady him, wordlessly giving aid and support with nothing more than a glance between them all. Aramis was grateful. He felt exhaustion creeping into his limbs, the price his body was paying for the exertion it took to stay conscious through the pain of the broken arm and shock of being whipped.

“Ya know, that was right foolish storming into a bunch of armed men dressed only in your braes and without a weapon,” Porthos said as he slung Aramis’s good arm up over his shoulder.

“Aramis is not known for his rational decision-making,” Athos said, slipping an arm around the marksman’s waist.

“I don’t think I like Athos having friends,” Aramis said with a glower. But he leaned gratefully on the two men by his side as they helped him back toward the infirmary.

“I think you better get used to it,” Porthos said, “Both of you,” he added with a wink. 

“I don’t have the strength to argue,” Aramis sighed wearily. Simultaneously both men tightened their grip, a quiet reassurance that they would not let him fall.

Loyalty, honor, brotherhood - the reasons he agreed to join the new Musketeer regiment were embodied by the men literally holding him up now. Aramis had faith that the Marchand’s of the regiment would be weeded out and then one day the honor of the Musketeers would be legendary. He could barely keep his eyes open, but it didn’t matter. He knew the two men by his side would guide him safely forward.


End file.
